Authors: Chris Ryan
The tanks were mostly T-55s – big, ugly Russian-designed machines that had first been manufactured as a replacement for the World War II T-34s. They had later been manufactured in their tens of thousands by the Czechs and the Chinese, and sold to regimes around the world. There was nothing elegant about the design, but there didn’t need to be. The T-55 was a brutal killing machine. Weighting thirty-six tonnes, it could still move at almost forty miles an hour when it was revved up to full speed, and its main 100mm D-10 rifle gun could loose off enough firepower to take out a small village. The Americans like to joke about the Iraqi kit, thought Jed, and it was true that it wasn’t a match for their own armour.
But the T-55
was still going to kill anything that came within five hundred yards of it.
Jed shut the door on the blue Toyota, and started to drive. It was at least seven miles to RVP, and he didn’t reckon his chances of getting across the city on foot were more than fifty-fifty. They weren’t much higher in the car, but at least he’d save himself some boot leather. He’d spent the night curled up in the sewers, then spent most of the day there as well. There was no point in trying to get anywhere: he just had to kill time until he was lifted out of the country, and he was safer underground than anywhere else. When dusk fell, he emerged from a manhole cover, and slipped silently through the streets to retrieve the Toyota. It was three blocks away, a distance of five hundred yards from his hiding place. Miraculously, the car was where he had left it the previous day, but you could see the devastation from the first wave of allied attacks all around. Smoke was still rising from smouldering fires, and the population was cowed and afraid, with hardly anyone on the streets. At the road junctions, soldiers were digging gun emplacements and throwing up barricades.
He fired the ignition, and started to drive. His route would take him out of the city the same way they’d come in. He’d take Highway 8 out to the south of the city, switch on to Highway 1, then drop down off the road into the patch of wasteland where the chopper was coming in. Be a nice simple run on a quiet Sunday afternoon, Jed thought as he kicked the Toyota up into third gear. On day two of a war, it would be a drive into hell.
It was just after seven at night. He had four hours to make the pickup. Plenty, he told himself. So long as the buggers don’t start shooting at me. A mile or so behind him, the plant was still spitting thick clouds of black smoke up into the air, but the Iraqis no longer seemed to be trying to put the fires out. Too many of the bloody things, thought Jed.
And not long before the next wave of missile strikes begins.
Dusk had already fallen, and as he drove up the slip route on to Highway 8, the road was virtually clear. There was one truck further up the road, but whether it was civilian or military Jed couldn’t tell. We should try sending a few cruise missiles along the M4, thought Jed.
At least it would help clear the traffic.
Keeping to the slow lane, Jed pumped the accelerator. The Toyota’s engine roared, spluttered, but the power picked up, pushing the speed to over fifty miles an hour. The sooner I get there the better, he told himself. Glancing up, he checked the night sky. No sign of incoming missiles, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t come later. We might be planning to bomb our way to victory, just the way we did against the Serbs, he thought. And even if we aren’t, they’re bound to send in a few cruises tonight. Bringing a chopper down in hostile territory is dangerous at the best of times. By sending in some incoming missile fire, you could distract and confuse the Iraqis enough to allow the chopper to slip through. It doesn’t matter whether they hit their targets last night, Jed thought.
These poor buggers are going to see some more missiles tonight anyway.
At least I’ll be getting my head down safely in a barracks in Kuwait tonight. It shouldn’t take more than an hour and a half for a Black Hawk to fly down to the border. It’ll be just after midnight local time when we touch down at the base. Time to get a shower and some decent grub, maybe a beer if I can find one. I can give Nick a call and see if there’s any sign of Sarah. Then I’ll just have to wait and see where they send me next – and start thinking about what I’ll say to Matt, Rob and Steve’s families.
He glanced in the mirror. It was another mile to the junction with Highway 1, and then another two miles to the pickup point. A jeep was following him in the nearside lane, about five hundred yards back. ‘Shit,’ Jed muttered. It was impossible to tell whether it was following him, or just using the road. He gunned the accelerator, coaxing the Toyota up to sixty. Another glance in the mirror. The jeep was picking up speed as well. Jed couldn’t tell what make it was, but even the Russian-made vehicles had big diesel engines that were capable of up to eighty miles an hour. Jed had no idea how fast the Toyota would go if you really pushed it. More than a hundred when it was new, but this machine was a wreck, patched together with pirated parts. It was a miracle it went at all.
He pressed harder on the accelerator, taking it past seventy. Behind, the jeep was still gaining. It was maybe three hundred yards behind him now. Then two hundred. The jeep pulled out into the outer lane. It was still accelerating. Jed slammed his foot down on to the floor. Got
to outrun them, he told himself. There’s a curfew in this city, and they are shooting people on sight. They certainly aren’t going to stop and ask me what they hell I’m doing out on the road at this time of night.
And if they do, they won’t like the answers.
The engine on the Toyota roared, then lost power. Jed took his foot off the juice, then tried it again. The rev counter was swinging around wildly, but although the engine was turning, the power wasn’t getting through to the wheels. His speed was dropping back to sixty, then fifty. The jeep was closing fast in the outside lane. Jed checked the mirror. The driver was flashing him with his lights. Pull over, that’s what he’s telling me.
No bloody way, mate.
He took his foot off the accelerator again, then pressed it even harder. This time a surge of power came up from the engine, taking him back up to sixty. Jed reckoned it was less than half a mile now to the junction. Maybe he could lose them there. Somewhere down in the city, he could hear the sound of gunfire. Anti-aircraft fire was sporadically lighting up the night sky but, so far, he could neither hear any aircraft nor see any missiles. The jeep was pulling up alongside him now. Jed glanced towards the side. The driver was leaning towards the passenger-side window, signalling for him to pull over to the hard shoulder. Jed shrugged, ignoring him. Play stupid, he told himself. Pretend you are just a frightened commuter trying to get home before the bombs start falling again. Maybe they’ll take pity on you.
The jeep pulled ahead of him, cutting into the lane,
and slowing down. ‘Bugger,’ muttered Jed. He swerved the Toyota into the outer lane, and gunned the accelerator, but the engine was over-revving and the power wasn’t coming through. He could smell burning rubber from the engine.
Right ahead of him, he could see a soldier leaning out of the back of the truck. He was holding an AK-47 in his hand, and pointing it straight at the Toyota. ‘Fuck,’ said Jed. He swerved the car out into the far lane, the tyres screeching against the tarmac as he did so. The marksman fired once, then twice. Jed felt the impact of one bullet hitting the bonnet of the car, another slashing into the tyre. The Toyota skidded across the road. Jed gripped the wheel, trying to bring it back under control. The car was losing power fast – glancing down, Jed could see the speedometer dropping below forty, then thirty. Another round of gunfire exploded from the back of the jeep. Jed could see a couple of rounds pinging off the surface of the road. Then there was a crash, as the windscreen exploded. He could feel tiny shards of glass colliding with his face, and instinctively his hands flew up to stop anything slicing his eyes. The car skidded wildly. His hands shot out to grab hold of the wheel again, and as he opened his eyes, he could see through the cracked and broken windscreen that he was heading straight into the crash barrier on the side of the road. He yanked hard on the wheel, the muscles straining in his shoulder as he struggled hard to straighten the car up. With his foot, he slammed hard on the brake. His hand shot down to grab hold of the handbrake, pulling
it hard upwards. The car screeched, the tyres melting on the surface of the road, as it struggled to get a grip. Its speed was slowing, dropping through thirty, towards twenty miles an hour. Jed pulled harder on the hand-brake.
Too bloody late, he told himself.
Ready yourself for a bruising, man.
Looking ahead, the jeep was accelerating away from him. The sniper loosened off another few rounds from his AK-47, but his aim was poor, and the bullets were just digging into the surface of the tarmac. Jed’s own gun was in his kitbag on the passenger seat, and he knew there was no point in trying to grab it and fire back. There was no time.
In the next instant, the side of the Toyota collided with the crash barrier. The machine shuddered and shook, and the air was suddenly filled with the ugly noise of metal smashing against metal. Sparks were flying everywhere, spitting up into the air. Jed felt the force of the collision first in his spine, as he was thrown back deep into the car seat. The crash barrier was ripping the right-hand side of the car to pieces: the door had come off and so had half the front bonnet. Jed could feel himself being thrown violently forward. He gripped the wheel to try and stop himself, but the force of the impact was too strong, and his head was thrown against the wheel, then into the broken window. He could feel a piece of glass snagging on to his jaw, ripping into the flesh. A trickle of warm blood started to flow down his neck.
As the car came to a halt, Jed lay still for a moment. ‘Fucking craphole of a country,’ he muttered, as he climbed out of the car.
He looked anxiously up the road. The jeep had long since disappeared into the distance, and for the moment the highway was empty. The buggers are just enforcing their curfew by shooting at anyone who happens to be on the road, he thought. They don’t care who they are, and can’t even be bothered to check whether they’re dead or not. What kind of an army is that?
One on the edge of desperation …
The Toyota was finished. Half the engine had been crushed in the collision, and the glass from the windscreen had skidded across the road, along with one wheel. Jed reached inside for his bag, and pulled out a first-aid kit. He splashed some alcohol onto the wound in his cheek, wincing as the raw spirit stung every nerve in his face. He stretched out a strip of plaster, and used it to patch himself up.
Beneath the highway there was a patch of wasteland, with big concrete pylons supporting the road dug deep into it. In the distance, Jed could hear the rumble of a military convoy. Whether it was tanks or trucks it was impossible to say. Makes no difference, he told himself. I’ve met enough of those buggers for one day.
With his kitbag on his shoulder, Jed hopped across the barrier and climbed down on to the open ground. It was dark now, and there was a layer of clouds blackening the sky, but the occasional burst of anti-aircraft fire provided sporadic bursts of illumination. Jed started
walking across the scrubland. Two more miles to go, he told himself. I don’t want to miss that chopper. It’s the last train home.
If I’m not on it, I’m a dead man.
Nick looked down on the countryside unfolding below him. The Black Hawk had been flying low for an hour now, making its way upcountry from Kuwait. It was twisting close to the ground, flying beneath the radar – a technique Nick recognised from the last time he’d been dropped into the country. Hovering low to the ground, he could see the blackened-out villages and townships that covered the road from Basra up to Baghdad, and although the pilot was keeping well away from the main road, off in the distance he could see the lights from the military convoys taking up their positions for the coming battle.
‘Christ,’ he muttered. ‘I swore I’d never come back to this bloody hellhole.’
Nick had been travelling non-stop for almost twenty-four hours now. From the Firm’s office in Vauxhall, he had been led out to an unmarked van that had driven him to RAF Northolt on the M40 heading out of London. A military transport jet had already been fuelled and was ready to go. There could have been a hundred men on board, but Nick wasn’t counting. Marlow came with him for the seven-hour flight to Kuwait. He grabbed a couple of hours’ sleep on the plane, but had been woken up by some heavy turbulence over the Mediterranean.
By the time they touched down, there had just been
time for a wash, some food and then a briefing with the local commanders who had a better assessment of the situation on the ground, before he was bundled into the Black Hawk for take-off. The commanders didn’t know much, as it turned out. A massive missile strike had been launched against Baghdad the night before, but how much damage had been done to the city, to the military infrastructure or to Saddam’s command and control systems, it was still unclear. ‘You mean nobody’s got a sodding clue?’ Nick had said to the young American staffer showing him the satellite images of central Baghdad. The man had stiffened, then relaxed. ‘That’s a pretty accurate summary,’ he had replied.
Nothing changes, thought Nick grimly. They sit behind their desks, firing off missiles, then they send in some guys like me to find out what happens.
The computers might get smarter, but the people behind them are as thick as ever.
‘Ready for touchdown in two minutes,’ said the pilot into the headphones Nick had on his head.
He glanced at the door of the Black Hawk. The chopper hit the ground hard, and the pilot was shouting in his ears to get out of the machine. Nick’s stomach was heaving: he’d never liked choppers much, and staying close to the ground meant the Black Hawk swayed around like a boat on rough seas. There were two pilots, plus one soldier in the back, but otherwise Nick was alone. They had kitted him out with basic survival tools: medical supplies, an AK-47, a pistol, a dozen grenades, a hunting knife, some food and a satphone. They had
also given him a couple of Iraqi Army uniforms taken from the deserters already streaming across the frontier: they might be the best way of travelling through Iraq. Otherwise, it was up to him. Go in there, and get her out, those were the instructions. How you do it is up to you.